


Let me try to pull you free

by ember_firedrake



Series: Let me see you in your darkness [5]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Dom/sub, Injury Recovery, M/M, Safeword Use, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 15:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8377696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_firedrake/pseuds/ember_firedrake
Summary: Following the loss of his leg, Silver can't stop thinking about the last night he spent with Flint before Charlestown, and what will happen when Flint learns the truth of the gold. Follows "My heart is under arrest again." Set between 2x10 and 3x01.





	

The pain was persistent, perpetual. The yawning abyss that each moment threatened to consume him. John Silver longed for respite, for relief, for the coaxing oblivion of laudanum. But the last thing he wanted was the loss of wits that came with such opiates. Not after…

Not after the way Flint had looked at him, an uncharacteristic softness on his features as he’d said, “It's a funny thing. The more those men need you, the more you need them. And it drives us to do the most unexpected things.”

He’d been referring in part to Silver’s sacrifice, unknowing of how reluctant a sacrifice it had been. How much had the men embellished Silver’s heroism? Silver felt his face heating, but it wasn’t just from that. _The more those men need you, the more you need them_.

Looking at Flint’s face, the way gentle crinkles had formed at the corners of his eyes, it made that night they’d spent together come rushing back. When Flint had finally kissed him, untied him and massaged his limbs, murmured his name and taken Silver into his arms. When they’d lain together after their coupling, the magnitude of what had just happened beginning to truly hit Silver. 

When Silver had asked _What happens now?_ And Flint had looked upon him, almost bashful, and had asked Silver to stay with him. 

Silver had felt it then, the way his pulse picked up and the sudden lump in his throat. Recalling the deal he’d made with the gold, and how eventually Flint would find out, eventually he would realize he’d been crossed…

_And...if things do not turn out as you hope in Charlestown?_

Flint had looked at Silver then, and Silver had wondered, in that moment, if Flint knew. If he sensed Silver’s reticence. If he could fathom the turmoil of thought taking place within Silver at that moment, his mind telling him to remember the gold, remember the fortune that would soon be his. But another part of him, a far more frightening part, wanting to say _yes_. 

_If that happens, you will still be welcome. In whatever capacity you choose._

So when Flint spoke of men needing each other, all Silver felt was that familiar pulse-pounding fear. If Flint knew the truth of the gold, he would not be looking at Silver that way, with kinship and appreciation and...something else Silver couldn’t name. Pain and shock had left him weak, his head spinning as he felt the yawning abyss at his back. 

“There's something you ought to know before we reach Nassau.”

Had Flint guessed the truth? Silver had turned his reaction over and over again within his mind, trying to parse each tension in his muscles, each waver in his voice. But the more Silver thought about it, the more uncertain he became. Flint had seemed to take the news almost personally, as though it were a betrayal of the most intimate kind. Silver had braced himself for the accusation, but it never came. Flint had stood there, clenching and unclenching his hand, before stalking from the room. 

It was later, after Doctor Howell checked the progress of his wound, that Silver learned what had transpired in Charlestown. How Mrs. Barlow had been shot before Flint’s eyes, and how Flint had wrought vengeance upon the town. 

A strong gust had indeed come to this place. Borne on the wings of Flint’s grief.

And yet, he had hidden it so well, when Silver had woken. He had been soft, almost gentle, until Silver spoke of the gold’s fate. 

Silver cursed himself for speaking up about it. He knew why he'd done it—better for Flint to find out now than when he arrived back at Nassau, and whatever his suspicions Silver doubted Flint would dispatch yet another quartermaster, and a crippled one at that. 

Bile rose in Silver’s throat. He hated himself just a little, for allowing his hopes to get up when Flint had looked at him with that soft expression. An expression that ignited hope that Flint’s offer to him was still on the table. _You will still be welcome. In whatever capacity you choose._

Had Flint anticipated that offer would extend to a recently invalided man? The last thing Silver wanted was a caretaker. And how could anyone want him after what had happened? 

Or perhaps that gentleness had just been an expression of pity. 

In the days that followed, Flint avoided his cabin unless he needed sleep. At least, it seemed that way, as Silver found himself nodding off frequently through the day. Still, when there was daylight, Flint was nowhere to be found. Billy and Muldoon visited him, along with checkups from Doctor Howell. They told Silver that the captain was in discussions with Vane regarding the protection of Nassau, as there would certainly be English reprisals for their actions in Charlestown. 

“Isn't that something I should be present for?” Silver asked through gritted teeth. He was trying his best not to look at the ruin of his leg as Howell unwrapped gauze and bandages, but he caught a glimpse of crude stitching and had to fight down a sudden wave of nausea. 

“The captain...didn't want to trouble you. While you're recovering,” Billy said, his mouth a line of disapproval. 

“I'll be the judge of that,” Silver said. “Let me on deck.”

Howell pursed his lips. “At present there is no sign of infection. But attempting to make your way on deck now could threaten that progress. I don't want you pulling any stitches.” 

“Please,” Silver said, hating the way it sounded. He'd seen nothing but the inside of this cabin for days, suffered the indignities of a chamber pot and having to bathe himself from a basin. Whether or not he spoke to Flint, the fresh air would be a welcome relief. 

Howell’s face softened. “Very well. But someone will assist you to the deck.” 

There was no getting around it, so Silver allowed himself to be supported by Muldoon’s shoulder and Billy’s arms as they helped him out of the cabin. A bench was brought out, allowing Silver to sit near the ship’s rail. Within moments, members of the crew were coming around to wish him well, say how much they missed his daily address, how pleased they were to see him recovering. Silver flushed under the attention, even as conflict stirred his heart. Billy must have noticed the change in his countenance, because after another minute he ushered the men back to their duties. 

Silver watched them go, back to scrubbing the deck and scaling the rigging and trimming the sails. Something within him ached, a different ache than the oscillating pain emanating from his leg. A life at sea was never one he would have envisioned for himself, but now he was even less suited to that life. 

Silver knew, if Max’s crew had been able to secure the gold, that there would be a share set aside for him when they arrived in Nassau. Better to take that gold and—

And what? Walk away from all this? The irony was not lost on him. Secure his future? What future could a man like him hope for now? Flint’s words rose in his mind, unbidden. They'd been spoken to him weeks ago, but time had only made the sting of them more keen. 

_Those men listen to you. They give a shit about what you have to say. What you think, what you want them to think. Where else in the world is that true? Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter? You walk out on this, and where the fuck are you going?_

Once Silver had longed for freedom from the sea, but now the iron peg awaiting his healing stump might as well have been an anchor. 

He'd once said he wanted freedom from Flint as well, but Silver found he could no longer hide from that particular lie. 

As if summoned by some preternatural ability, Flint was only a few feet from him at the railing. Silver would not give him the satisfaction of appearing startled. Flint appeared...more relaxed than he had in recent days. It wasn't quite the ease he'd had when Silver had first woken, but it was something less than the tension there'd been in his cabin since then. _Of course_ , Silver realized, _he can't afford for the men to see any distance between us_. 

“Mr. Silver,” Flint said. At once familiar and distant. “You're looking...better than you have lately.” 

_Better than dead, you mean?_ Silver thought, but bit his tongue. Flint was haunted by death; it followed him like a shadow, and Silver did not want to remind him of that. Still, _he_ hated being reminded of it, how close he'd been to death. How an infection or sudden turn might bring him there again. He hated talk of _recovery_ and _progress_ , as though there was some sort of end goal in sight, some escape from the constant throbbing ache that plagued him. He had no control over it. He had no control—

Silver’s breath caught, the barest trace of an idea forming in his mind. He looked to Flint, whose brows were furrowed as he regarded Silver. There was something there, something beyond the tense detachment he'd shown Silver recently. 

“Doctor Howell permitted me on deck, but only so long as someone assists me for the time being. I wondered—that is, if it's not too much trouble…”

Flint blinked, surprise dawning on his features as he realized Silver was in fact asking for his help. “Of course,” he said, stepping forward. 

Silver felt his pulse stutter as Flint's side pressed against his, Flint’s shoulder supporting him. The last time they'd been this close, there had been far fewer layers between them. Flint had kissed his wrists and held Silver, the rocking of the ship making them both drift off until time and the ringing of the early watch bells had forced them to separate. 

He wondered if Flint was remembering the same thing. 

Silver managed to make it to their cabin before indulging himself, turning in Flint’s hold before looping both arms around his neck. The yawning pain in his leg was ever-present, but he still had needs. And as he angled his head up, pressing his lips to the underside of Flint's jaw, he felt a different sort of ache take precedence within him. 

Flint stilled, his pulse beneath Silver’s lips picking up. He let out a soft noise that was barely a groan. 

“ _Please_ ,” Silver murmured. His own pulse seemed to pound, anxiety ratcheting up as he considered how this show of vulnerability could backfire. Vulnerability that he was still loath to expose, except it was the only way… “Please, Captain, I need—” 

Flint seemed to shudder, his other arm coming around to support Silver as he— _yes_ —angled his face until his lips met Silver’s, deepening the kiss. Silver was reminded of how long it had taken Flint to cross that final threshold, of how overwhelming it had been last time, the all-consuming way Flint had seemed to map his mouth. It was no less overwhelming now, as if these past days of tension were bleeding themselves out in the tangle of their lips. It was catharsis, the pain and loss they'd both suffered as they sought out this form of solace in one another. But it wasn't enough. 

“I need…” Silver repeated, gasping as he pulled back for air. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Flint said breathlessly, his grip guiding Silver back towards the long cushioned benches at the stern windows. “I’ve got you. Let me—” 

Silver tensed a moment. It was uncomfortably close to the crew’s promise to look after him. Just the memory was enough to make fear seize him briefly. Fear and helplessness. But that was why he was doing this. He needed something he could control.

“I want,” Silver wavered, trying to decide how best to phrase it. “I want you to hit me again. Like the first time.”

Flint faltered, drawing back. “What— _no_. John, I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Silver tensed, resentment leaving an acrid hollowness within his chest. “Don’t you understand? I _want_ it.” 

But Flint was shaking his head, resolute and final in a way that probably wasn’t intended to seem patronizing, but it made Silver’s blood boil all the same. “I won’t do anything that could open your stitches or risk infection.” 

Silver wasn't used to this. The other times, Flint had been accommodating, happy to follow Silver's requests, even if he had been the one in control. Now Silver just felt helpless and foolish in more ways than one, cursing himself inwardly that he'd thought Flint could still want him after what he'd gone through. He sagged against the cushion, hands slipping from Flint's neck. Flint caught one of his hands before it could fall away entirely. 

Flint’s brows furrowed with worry as he frowned. “Tell me why.” 

Silver swallowed, forcing down that hollow feeling. He found himself unable to meet Flint’s eyes as he haltingly spoke. “You don't know what it's like...the pain. Being so caught up in it you can't think. Feeling trapped by your own body. Feeling...every moment, that same helplessness as when those men held me down and destroyed that part of me.”

He forced himself to look up, to meet Flint's gaze, catching the dark shadow that flashed across Flint's eyes at the reminder of what Vane’s quartermaster had done. 

Silver pressed on, certain he could win the argument if only Flint _understood_. “You said you don't want to hurt me, but it isn't like that. I—I never realized pain could feel _good_ until what you did. That it could take my mind to another place...and drown out everything else.”

And more than that, pain he controlled. Pain he _welcomed_. Was it truly so difficult for Flint to grasp? 

Flint was silent for a long while, as if battling with himself. There was a plaintive sort of desperation in his bearing as he finally stirred himself from whatever contemplation he'd been caught up in. Flint reached forward, sweeping Silver’s curls back from his face and leaning in to kiss his forehead in a way that set Silver’s heart stuttering. 

“Very well. Remove your clothes, as much as is comfortable for you.” 

Flint drew away to move about the cabin, leaving Silver on the cushioned bench. Silver pulled his shirt off, relieved but wondering what Flint could possibly have in mind. He moved his hands to his trousers, hesitating as he began to push the material down his hips. Silver stared at the loose end of the trouser leg where the fabric fell unnaturally flat. If he and Flint were to continue this...whatever they were, he would need to expose that part of himself eventually. What if...he was no longer attractive to Flint? He hadn't told Silver to remove all his clothing, after all. What if it was an out, a way for them both to ignore it as long as they could? 

Silver couldn't tear his gaze away, seeing in his mind’s eye the arc of the axe as it swung down. Pain throbbed along his leg as if in mockery. 

_Or perhaps he understood you might be self-conscious_ , a part of him reasoned. _He wanted you to keep that part of yourself, or share it, on your own terms._

In the end, Silver pushed the material the remainder of the way off. There was some gauze wrapping on his leg, but other than that he was naked.

When Flint approached once more, he'd removed his shirt as well. Silver recalled how many layers, both physical and otherwise, that Flint had cloaked himself in during all their previous encounters. Last time—last time when Silver had been blindfolded and bound, hearing the shuffle of fabric and knowing Flint was shedding those layers, it had almost been too much. When he'd asked Flint to remove the blindfold, he hadn't expected Flint would actually indulge him. But now Flint had done so unbidden. It felt...meaningful, somehow. And, as Silver took in the freckled expanse of Flint's torso, it was certainly appreciated. 

In his hand Flint gripped the pillar of a candle, which he held out in offering, cupping his other hand around the soft orange glow of the flame. “I won't strike you. I meant what I said about not doing anything that could upset your stitches. But I can do this for you. The wax, when heated, offers a unique sensation. It's easier to control in terms of application and pain level.” 

Silver's pulse beat rapidly, something that was not quite nervousness filling him. He recalled what he'd said to Flint, what felt like lifetimes ago. _I have an exceptionally low tolerance for pain._

His entire awareness these days was pain. Even in sleep there was no escaping it. What did it say about him, that the prospect of more did not send him weeping? What did it say about him that the sight of that candle, the implications in that flickering flame, had his breath catching in his throat, a flush spreading through him and his cock beginning to fill against his thigh? 

“Do it,” Silver said, his voice gravelly and low. 

Flint moved in, the distance between them closing as he held himself over Silver’s body. He seemed to lean down, and Silver found himself unconsciously arching upwards, his body craving contact. 

The melted wax came into contact with his sternum, and Silver hissed as it left a hot trail down the plane of his chest. It was a bright, focused spot in his awareness. But then the immediate intensity waned, leaving the after-echo of heat. He looked down, watching the wax grow more opaque. 

When Silver looked back up, Flint was watching him intently. 

“Again?” 

Silver nodded. 

The second time was further down, the hot wax coming into contact with his abdomen. Silver’s muscles tensed at the contact, his breath coming in panting bursts as he adjusted to the pain.

“Again,” Silver gritted out. 

As when Flint had spanked him, it wasn't _just_ about the pain. It was _Flint_ , knowing Flint’s focus was wholly on him. Silver's awareness narrowing to the flame—that bright, flickering point rising and falling as Flint adjusted the height of the candle above Silver’s body. The flashes of pain as wax met skin, the lingering heat bringing with it a strange sort of cleansing purity. 

“ _Again_ ,” Silver said, his voice sounding raw to his own ears. 

A broken sob escaped him at the flare of heat, white-hot, against his nipple. Distantly, he was aware that Flint had held the candle high, reducing the temperature as the wax fell through the air, but his nerves were so oversensitized at this point he could hardly tell the difference. He groaned, distantly aware of how aroused he'd become, cock hard and curving up from his navel. Flint did the same for his other nipple, and Silver arched upwards. 

“Look at you,” Flint said, a reverent note in voice that made something within Silver lurch off-balance. “Look at you, John.”

Silver looked down at himself. He was trembling, his entire body flushed. Perspiration beaded his skin, in between the crisscrossing pattern of wax that marked him like fault lines on his body. Flint angled the candle, letting melted wax fall. Silver found his breath catching as it touched his hipbone, the excess wax traveling to his inner thigh and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The proximity made his cock jump, a motion Flint tracked with dark, intense eyes. 

“You're beautiful,” Flint said. 

Silver's mind faltered, a peculiar sensation seizing within his chest. No, he wasn't. He was...broken and incomplete, but not beautiful. But Flint, Flint looked at him like he was, and Silver didn't know how to deal with that. 

“I want your mouth on me,” Silver said, hoping he could distract Flint from more such declarations. 

Flint made a soft needy sound, setting aside the candle and kneeling before Silver. They hadn't done this before. Last time, Flint had fucked Silver's mouth, but Flint hadn't taken Silver in his mouth yet. When they'd begun their encounters, Silver hadn't dared hope that was something Flint might want. But he'd gotten very good at reading Flint, at the way his eyes seemed to linger, the wants and needs he denied himself hidden in his gaze. 

Flint took Silver into his mouth like a man famished, groaning as his lips wrapped around Silver’s length. Silver cursed, head falling back. Flint approached this with the same single-minded focus he had with everything else they'd done together, rolling his tongue and taking Silver deeper. It was _incredible,_ and Silver reached down, indulging the desire he'd long held to tangle his hands in Flint's hair. 

Flint pulled off to nuzzle at him, his beard a maddening scrape that had Silver twitching helplessly. 

“ _John_ ,” he murmured before kissing the underside of Silver’s cock. 

“ _John_ ,” breathed against the soft skin of his inner thigh. 

“ _John_ ,” where his foreskin had drawn back. 

Flint repeated it like an invocation, his hands moving to Silver's thighs in the gentlest of touches. With each utterance, Silver felt something seize within him, cold and alarming. 

It was too much. The care, the gentleness. The _reverence_ in Flint's tone, and whatever else he felt that made the lump in Silver’s throat feel knotted in panic. 

If Flint knew of the gold, of the lies Silver had told to reach this point, he wouldn't be treating Silver this way. Like something to be _cherished_. 

Silver didn't want the disappointment that would inevitably follow such softness. He didn't want anyone's pity. He didn't want their help. He didn't want to be _beholden_ to anyone. He didn't want—

“Belay.” The word was almost a croak, and Silver swallowed before saying again, “ _Belay._ ”

Flint went still immediately. He drew back slowly, a line of tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. Seeing the expression on Flint’s face—apologetic, confused, lost—Silver almost took it back. It wasn’t what Flint had done, couldn’t he see that? It was _him_ , Silver. He didn’t deserve Flint, the understanding or tenderness Flint offered. Not after what he had done. Flint would only come to resent him.

Silver blinked back sudden tears, the emotion he’d held at bay threatening to overwhelm him, and hating himself for that show of weakness. The pain in his leg, forgotten until now, seemed to surge along his nerves. A choked sob nearly escaped him, and Flint— _god_ , still with that look of turmoil on his face—reached out, but then hesitated. He didn’t know if he was allowed. 

“I’m sorry,” Silver said, his voice sounding utterly wretched to his own ears. But he needed Flint to understand why they’d stopped. “I—I can’t—” 

The gaping maw of the abyss was there, insidious and seductive. It would be so easy to allow himself to drown in it. 

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Flint said. His brows furrowed in anguish as he looked at Silver. “I shouldn’t have—this is my fault.”

“ _No_ , it’s not.” Whatever else, Silver wouldn’t have Flint blaming himself. 

“I—what can I do?” 

The look Flint gave Silver was pleading and sorrowful at the same time. Silver’s breath caught in his throat as he looked into Flint’s eyes. He remembered the way Flint had apologized to him last time, kissing him and holding him close. He’d thought, at the time, that Flint was only doing it for Silver’s benefit. Those earlier times, when Silver had thought about Flint kissing him, when Silver had wanted more...he’d thought Flint was finally indulging him. But what if Flint had needed that contact, that _intimacy_ , just as much?

What if he’d needed it more? 

Silver wasn't sure if he was capable of giving Flint what he needed. He wasn't sure he wouldn't disappoint Flint deeply in the coming weeks. He wasn't sure, if he allowed this to continue the way it had been going, that the panic wouldn't seize him again. But he wanted to do something to alleviate that forlorn expression on Flint’s face. 

“Would you...read to me?” Silver asked, gesturing at the cushion beside him. 

Flint's expression was clouded, an edge of pain remaining in the furrow of his brows, but after a moment he nodded. He turned, moving to pull his shirt back on, that physical layer put in place again. Silver reached for his own shirt, wincing as the wax began to peel. He would take care of it after Flint went to bed, he thought as he tugged the material down. He didn't want to struggle with trousers again, so he pulled a blanket to cover his legs. 

At the bookshelf, Flint stood, arrested by some inner thought. His fingers lingered on the spine of a red leather-bound volume. From this distance, Silver couldn't make out the title. Flint seemed to reach the end of his contemplation, moving on to select a different volume. 

When he returned to sit beside Silver on the cushioned bench, Silver could see the chosen book was _Don Quixote_. Flint began reading aloud, the Spanish words and phrases curling in Silver’s awareness as he translated in his head. Silver understood though. The book, like the shirt and like the furrow in Flint’s brow, was another wall. Another barrier that hadn't been there before. Flint setting more distance between them, after the distance Silver had already caused. 

_Self-preservation_ , Silver thought. He couldn't exactly fault Flint for it. The shadow in Flint’s eyes was the echo Silver felt each time his leg throbbed in pain. The abyss beckoning. Better to not have anyone close when it called. 


End file.
